


Floral Ink

by Driehoek



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Elliott is a mess but he's healing, also Bloodhound and lifeline are legit best buddies, playing it safe for now, tags might be subject to change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 12:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18550153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Driehoek/pseuds/Driehoek
Summary: Due to prior events that reshaped his life forever, Elliott Witt did not handle change well. He wished he could freeze time in the street he grew up in, or at least control what changed. The last thing he needed was someone new emerging in his life, someone who oh so carelessly managed to see right through the cocky persona he played in his day-to-day life. He didn't want to open up to anyone... Right?





	Floral Ink

The summer was coming to its end. The sweetgum trees growing on both sides of St Lawrence avenue had started to fade to a deep red at the very edges of the star shaped leaves.

Elliott always took a moment or two every morning to appreciate the changing colours of the late summer, just after hauling the plastic flower vases with roses and gerberas outside of the shop and attaching the corresponding price tags. In that moment, he'd feel the almost irresistible urge to whip out a pack and light a cigarette to get that sweet, sweet rush of nicotine to accompany the moment, but his patting hand met nothing but a pair of gardening scissors in his pocket and he'd have to remind himself he'd quit months ago.

This morning however, his attention was drawn to the shop three doors down across the street. The front windows had had brown paper taped to them for almost two years now, and the name decal had been scratched off for longer than he could remember. Now, the paper had been torn down from the windows, revealing that people inside were working hard on renovating the shop. Someone was patiently applying a new decal on the front window.

It was good news that there was a new shop opening up in the street, Elliott tried to tell himself. It was good news. That meant whatever company or business owner that was moving into the building deemed St Lawrence Avenue a profitable enough spot for a new shop to take off, and it could only bring Witt’s Flowers more customers, right? That was good news, he knew how worried his mother was about the shop possibly not drawing in enough customers.

And yet, in a less rational part of his brain he started to panic. It was barely present, a low hum of anxiety as background noise to all the other thoughts and ideas constantly rushing around in his mind, but it was  _ there _ . He had never had a problem with change, until that dreaded day, almost six years ago now.

Elliott had never had that same patriotic streak as his three older brothers. He didn't feel the same connection to the country he grew up in as his older brothers did, which was why all three of them choose to join the marines as soon as they turned eighteen— much to their mother's dismay— and Elliott didn't.

His oldest brother Anthony had not understood his mother's concerns. He fancied himself invincible with a weapon in his hands, told his mother not to worry and did two tours to a country in the Middle East. Anthony had always been the courageous type, not afraid to loudly voice his opinion on whatever subject was even remotely close to being discussed, but the loudness of his voice conveniently masked other emotions that he probably should have expressed. He was confident, handsome and popular, but he had a darker, quieter side to him that Elliott never got the chance to understand.

Then there was Quentin, second oldest after Anthony. He was quieter than his older brother, but not by a lot. He idealised Anthony's tour overseas, wanted to be just like him, wanted the attention that he got, even though he would never admit that out loud. Maybe he was tired of being seen as “Anthony's younger brother” and wanted to prove himself? Maybe he romanticised the idea of the military? Elliott was unsure what made him join.

Elliott loved all of his brothers to death, but he had an extra special connection with Orville. Anthony and Quentin had been quite a bit older than him, and while it was nice to have older siblings in different stages of life, he needed someone who knew exactly what he was going through, who dealt with the same teenage angst only years earlier. Orville was this person to him. He and Elliott only differed a little over a year in age, and with how close they were one would assume they were twins, had it not been for the fact that Orville was the spitting image of his father rather than his mother, unlike the other three Witt brothers.

Orville had attended college for less than a year before joining the marines. Elliott had asked him why.

“Someone needs to keep an eye on those two idiots,” Orville had answered with a grin, but his eyes had betrayed he was serious.

They wouldn't be stationed anywhere near each other, of course. Past tragedies where entire families had been torn apart had been learnt from, so the three oldest Witt brothers had conveniently been placed in different squads.

It had been somehow overlooked that these three different squads had been on the same tour and that they met unexpectedly at some point during the mission, when two neighbouring bases had to be evacuated due to enemy troops advancing faster than anticipated.

On that day, the three Witt brothers were reportedly on the same Jeep that was supposed to transport them to freedom. They were probably exhausted, sand clinging to the dried sweat on their skin, dry throats, silent prayers to whatever deity they still believed in after witnessing the horrors of the battlefield firsthand.

On that day, a Jeep hit a stray landmine that had somehow not been caught by the minesweepers and their dogs, who had thoroughly combed the land time and time again.

On that day, the three Witt brothers were never found again. No one that had been inside the Jeep could be identified, but the dog tags of fourteen soldiers had been unscathed by the fire and left little to the imagination. Anthony Witt, Quentin Witt and Orville Witt were reported as killed in action.

Elliott had held his mother tightly as she let out the most primal, raw, haunting cry he'd ever had the displeasure of hearing when the two men in high ranking military uniforms showed up at their doorstep, carrying not one, not two, but three folded flags at once. He gently lowered her onto the ground as she wailed and cried as if the world was to end that very day. And in a way, it did, a piece of their world ended that very day.

Elliott had not understood any of the emotions that whirled through his chest while he listened to the two men explaining what happened, his face and hands numb and his mind unable to form a coherent thought. He just nodded sullenly, the sound of his breathing rushing through his throat unimaginably loud.

The men left, the door closed, and his mother covered her eyes and again let out a piercing cry. The sound was distorted by the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

“There must've been a mistake,” a stranger's voice spoke from his own body.

Mom looked up. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. “Elliot,” she whispered, voice hoarse from her previous screaming. “Elliott. Come here.”

He awkwardly lowered himself into a squatting position next to her, and at that moment his legs gave out. His mother caught him, wrapping her loving arms around him and pushing his face in her shoulder while she continued to utter a series of broken sobs. He felt a sob tugging at the very back of his throat. It couldn't be true. It simply couldn't be true.

He was so confused. Who had to tell Dad? Was he just going to find the two of them sobbing on the floor?

“I can't tell Dad,” he said quietly. “I won't be able to tell him without s-stuttering.”

And it was as if the realisation of what had happened gave him a roundhouse kick to the head when he spoke those words, as if acknowledging what had happened cemented it into reality. He quickly covered his mouth, his expression a mixture between extreme shock and disbelief, and the sorrowful look his mother gave him finally made him break down into tears.

On that day, Elliott Witt became an only child.

Mother wouldn't talk about it after the funeral. She was a shut-in, maybe too proud to let her emotions show, maybe too impatient to deal with her own grief. That was where she collided with Randolph Witt, his father. Randolph allowed himself to be completely consumed by his grief, maybe too much so. After the third time he'd thrown an empty liqour bottle across the room, mother showed him out of the house, and he was never allowed back in again.

Elliott was shocked more at his own indifference toward his parents’ divorce than to the divorce itself. Mother didn't need consoling anymore, she had hardened. Father didn't want consoling, in fact, Elliott never heard from him again after he had been ordered to leave the house. It hardly registered as a loss to his depressed mind.

Elliott noticed he had leaned his head back against the wooden window frame of the shop’s front window for… how long had it been now? Once in a while he was just sucked into memories of that indescribably horrid time in his life and he lost all track of his surroundings every time it happened. At least this time, the flashback wasn't accompanied by feelings of extreme dread and panic, which had been the case numerous times in the past. That had been… a bit of a problem. It had taken a while for him to swallow his pride, but ultimately, the therapy sessions at the shrink that Ajay had recommended, had helped him tremendously. The numbness that had clouded his mind for years, had slowly dissipated. The flashbacks never really disappeared, though. They probably wouldn't ever disappear. He'd carry the broken shards of grief over his brothers with him forever, they'd been such a significant part of his life that he simply couldn't be the same person without them.

This day was bound to be like any other. It was a warm Friday, and as usual the first commuters and businessmen started dropping by at around three in the afternoon, buying bouquets of red roses as a meagre consolation or apology for their significant others who had complained about them working after hours for the entire week. It always struck Elliott as odd. ‘Here my love, here are flowers to make up for my absence. Hush now, you cannot complain about my shitty work schedule for a while.’

Ajay entered the store at around four like she did practically every day. Elliott fell for it every time: he'd have his back turned to the front door and suddenly someone would clamp themselves to his back in a hug stronger than one would expect for someone of that size.

It got a small yelp out of him every time.

“Ajay, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, poorly masking his amusement.

“Anita not here today?” Ajay asked with a triumphant grin, gently brushing freshly cut freesias aside before pushing herself atop the counter, legs dangling.

“No, she said she has obligi- olbi-... she has a job too, right,” Elliott said. “It's not like this is her full-time job.”

“That a shame,” Ajay muttered, pulling her legs up on the counter, then shifting her weight to look out the front window. Elliott followed her glance. She noticed.

“I already saw it on my way in,” she gestured vaguely. “They're renovating. Finally.”

“What do you mean finally?” Elliott asked, dumbfounded that Ajay was apparently better informed of the events on St Lawrence than he was. He picked up the rest of the freesias and put them in one of the plastic vases scattered next to the counter.

“Oh, you remember Octavio?”

Elliott did remember the hyperactive, lanky young man Ajay had brought in a few times before. Al least, whenever they arrived together, Elliot could mentally prepare himself for their synergetic extroversion as he could hear the ridiculous way Octavio revved his motorcycle from three blocks away. Elliot had asked Ajay if they were dating, and the two younger people had responded with a very loud “no” in unison, which honestly didn't help him much in trying to figure out what exactly their relationship was. Octavio seemed alright, it just struck Elliott as odd that he never wanted to take off his motorcycle helmet. According to Ajay, he'd said it was more time-efficient to keep it on.

“Well, Octavio said a couple of people restarted the store there,” she continued. “I think it was a tattoo shop for a while, then a shady hair salon and now they're reverting it back to a tattoo shop.”

“Wait, it was?” Elliott asked, squatting down to grab one of the vases stacked next to the counter. He didn't remember it being a hair salon, or a tattoo shop for that matter.

“I know a couple of the people who are working on the renovation,” Ajay said. “I'll ask around if you need specifics.”

Elliott absent-mindedly wiped his hands on his jeans and nodded, staring out the front window to the now busy interior of the building across the street.

He did not like change. He really, really did not like change.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hello this is jackdaw and welcome to "what did I get myself into this time oh my god"
> 
> This is a friend's idea and I'm enjoying every second of writing it. I'm under no pretense of being a good writer, just havin some fun. Next chapter will have less exposition, I promise


End file.
